


The Harpist

by Aansero



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father/Son Incest, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aansero/pseuds/Aansero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanaro listens to music and seduces his second eldest son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Harpist

**Author's Note:**

> Using the Quenya names here, so Fëanaro = Fëanor, and Makalaurë = Maglor.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, [gaialux](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux)!

They sat together in the drawing room of Makalaurë’s suite: Fëanaro reclined on the divan sofa, and Makalaurë at a low bench, where he was playing his harp.

Laurelin had just reached her peak, and gold spilled into the room from the open window. As Makalaurë played he thought of little, as was his wont, but let his mind run blank and fill up with the sound of the harp-strings and the touch of wire and cool ivory levers. The air was warm, and in the far distance he could hear Tyelkormo’s hounds barking. After a moment they quietened down.

The only noise left was that of Makalaurë’s harp. There were birds on the windowsill – spinebills that came to feed on the nectar of the flower gardens, and one of the bowerbirds that Fëanaro had a particular fondness for – but they remained still, listening, as respectful an audience as any. Makalaurë closed his eyes for a moment and let his fingers find the strings from memory alone.

His harp sang in triple metre, a languorous melody more bold than glorious, and with the occasional foray into a series of more fluttering, playful notes. Not, he knew, his father’s preferred style, but Fëanaro had requested a hearing on learning that this particular piece was done, and well: when had any of his sons last refused something like that?

A swift called outside, sharp and piercing, too intent on feeding her chicks to stay and listen. Out of the corner of his eye Makalaurë saw his father frown, just minutely, at the disruption. The swift circled by the window once more, then flew across the courtyard as the bowerbird rose up and drove it away.

The piece was coming to an end, but Makalaurë pulled it out with a perhaps unnecessary repetition of one of the middle sections. He flicked the levers to change key, and when that finished, merged effortlessly into a cadenza with a return to the fluttering silver.

Yes, he thought distantly – he’d definitely run this far beyond what he should have, but a quick glance confirmed that his father appeared neither impatient nor critical – two expressions that anyone who knew Fëanaro recognised well, not least of all his sons. In fact his eyes were closed, a smile played about his lips, and his whole body seemed relaxed, with legs outstretched and arms thrown over the backrest; the very picture of enjoyment. Still, Makalaurë did not want to press his luck, and brought the piece to an end on a rapid flurry of chords that trembled and whispered before he let them fade. For a moment there was silence. The windowsill birds waited another few seconds, then flew away.

‘Bravo,’ Fëanaro said. His smile was lazy, but he opened his eyes, and they shone with a keen light. ‘I shan’t want for proof, the next time I rise to defend your title as greatest musician in Valinor.’

‘Thank you,’ Makalaurë said as he sat back on his bench and returned the smile, open and honest. How could he not? He had a certain pride in his work – he was Noldo, after all – and nothing fed that to a greater degree than the praise of his father. Fëanaro’s standards were absurdly high, and his compliments sparingly given.

‘I had thought myself proficient at the harp, until you started to play.’ Fëanaro stretched out his legs, then stood, languid, confident, like every motion was choreographed and perfected beforehand. His smile was still present and his voice had dipped low in tone, and though the words marvelled they were ever Fëanaro’s – which is, forceful. ‘Even as you grew to adulthood you outstripped me.’

Makalaurë paused, suddenly uncertain. There was a tension in the air he hadn’t noticed building, and he was frozen with his fingers on the sound box of his harp, head upturned to watch as his father walked towards him, silent-footed and sure. Fëanaro’s eyes, half-lidded, held an energy within them – the feeling of a deep sound travelling up one’s bones.

‘I would not say outstripped,’ Makalaurë managed, as Fëanaro circled around the bench he sat on, and placed a hand on each of his shoulders. ‘And certainly not so young.’

Fëanaro chucked, a rich, rolling laugh that seemed to shake out all other noise from the air, like shaking out crumbs from a tablecloth. ‘Do not be coy,’ he said. ‘It is a father’s greatest pleasure, to be surpassed by his sons.’

Makalaurë thought, for a second, that Fëanaro was many things – a jewel-smith, an inventor, a linguist, and a prince, to name just a few – and it was rare these days that a father was foremost amongst them. Then, the second over, he berated himself for being uncharitable, and groped about for a suitable reply.

He could not think of one. When had been the last time he’d had to give thanks for his father’s compliments twice in a row? Fëanaro’s body pressed against his back, and his fingers were hot and as strong as steel.

Had Maitimo mentioned any odd behaviour of their father’s, when they’d spoken over breakfast this morning? No. Neither had any of his other brothers, when he’d spoken to them last, nor had any of the house staff.

Makalaurë could feel his heart beat in his chest. His harp, clothes, bench and floor all pressed against his body. They each paled next to the presence of Fëanaro, whose touch and scent and sound swept all before him into insignificance – and Makalaurë, caught up in the flow, pinned by the spotlight of Fëanaro’s attention, would not have broken free even had he been able.

They were of much the same height, if Makalaurë marginally slighter of build; but when Fëanaro sat down behind him, chest pressed to Makalaurë’s back, arms encircling Makalaurë’s arms, and the palms of his hands on the back of Makalaurë’s hands – he felt as large as the Valar themselves. The insides of his thighs pressed tight against Makalaurë’s body.

Fëanaro picked up their hands and placed them over the strings on the harp. ‘Teach me,’ he whispered in Makalaurë’s ear, hot and humid and low. ‘Show me your mastery.’

It mattered little that it was Fëanaro guiding his hands and not the other way around; Makalaurë could not have plucked an arpeggio at that moment. He felt like his blood was half wine and five degrees too hot. He felt like his bones echoed with Fëanaro, tuned to his power and resonating in accordance. He was wrapped in an orchestra – within the instruments themselves, deep inside strings and wooden bodies, in the metal of trumpets and the air below the skin of a drum. There was at that moment nothing else in the world but the contents of that small room.

He was hard – achingly so.

‘Mine is but an offshoot of your own mastery, Father,’ Makalaurë said, and his golden voice was thick and near to trembling. ‘Anything of it you desire, is already yours.’

‘Good; then I shall wait no longer.’

Fëanaro turned Makalaurë’s face with one strong hand, and kissed him deeply.

He had kissed before, of course. Many times. But it had never been quite like this.

At some point Makalaurë found that they had left the bench and were sitting instead on the divan, face to face, himself in Fëanaro’s lap. His hands were on Fëanaro’s waist, and Fëanaro’s hands were on his thighs.

The door to his suit was unlocked, he knew. His window remained open. Maitimo was still in the house, as were several staff. But the way his father kissed him and massaged his inner thighs made him moan – and if yet quiet, he was unabashed. Had he ever considered this, in his wildest flights of fancy? No, and yet, that absence now seemed absurd. How could he have desired anything but this, here and now?

‘You are beautiful,’ Fëanaro said, breaking their kiss only far enough for his words to fall directly into Makalaurë’s mouth. ‘More beautiful than Varda writhing naked in the dew of the Trees.’ He laughed aloud at his own blasphemy, and the sound ran through the air like fire, sharp-edged and bright. ‘You are made of me. You are mine.’

‘I am yours,’ Makalaurë said, and removed the space between their lips, even as his hands roved Fëanaro’s chest and undid the buttons of his clothes. Fëanaro’s skin burnt, his fingers inexorable in returning the gesture, until they both sat naked, pressed skin to skin and cock against cock.

‘Your voice.’ Fëanaro spoke like the very words were sacred. ‘Were you to shout your pleasure, could it be a lesser sound than that first great song of the Ainur?’ He pushed Makalaurë onto his back and knelt there above him. ‘You are made of my flesh and my mind,’ he said, breathless. ‘You are mine forever and always.’

‘I am yours,’ Makalaurë cried out. ‘So take me and see if my shouts are indeed not lesser!’

Fëanaro leant down to kiss him, mouth and jaw and throat, and pulled up Makalaurë’s legs to his waist, where they clung. ‘Beg me once more,’ he said.

‘Father,’ Makalaurë begged. ‘I am yours.’ And Fëanaro grinned wolfishly down at him.

If Makalaurë had at that moment stopped to ponder the question of what Fëanaro’s manner would be in bed, he would have wasted hours and come to no good conclusion. He had, however, no time to ponder, only to lay down his head and arch his back.

Whatever he had expected, it was unlike this: Fëanaro was gentle, and unhurried. He stroked Makalaurë’s neck and chest, and touched his face, fingers playing over the skin of his lips and eyelids. Makalaurë groaned, and using thighs and hips he drove the pace to quicken, and the force to increase. Fëanaro chuckled delightedly, chest heaving, pitch black hair sticking to the skin of his shoulders and neck.

….

If Makalaurë’s shouts were, to the ears of his father at least, more exquisite than song of the Ainur creating Ëa, then he did not find out. They lay together afterwards, silent and content to be, dozing on the silk cushions.

Laurelin was close to waning, casting warm shadows about the room as Fëanaro finally stood, stretching and entirely unashamed of the remaining marks sex had left on him. He pretended not to notice Makalaurë’s eyes on his body as he fetched the bowl of candied amla he had brought in with him, and sitting back down he fed the fruit to Makalaurë, piece by sticky piece. Watching him eat, Fëanaro licked the sugar from his own fingertips.


End file.
